There is no inspiration for the creative wording process that isn't being poured into my work, drained and plead and put upon and needy, needy, needy. One of the last proposals I wrote before leaving my job was just awarded, a $6m federal grant that will help homeless families get back to chasing the dream with shoes on their feet, and all it took was weeks of reading their stories, being depressed at how awful all of us really are to each other, editing heart wrenching heart rending gut ripping laments into one line digestible story bites so that faraway readers getting paid $800 a day can give you your points before the hotel lobby opens the wine bar. Ow. Happy that you have at least tried. Ow. For what? Ow. Your kids and your wife and the hope that whoever is the author of your life's story believes in happy endings. In other words, you hope that the person writing your life is one of the authors you can't stand to read.
My son turned 14, and passed the 6 foot mark. My sister-in-law found a blue heeler on her lawn, bitten to pieces by coyotes, and took it in to the vet, wound up raising over $2,000 to pay for his surgery, and the poor thing has so many shunts sticking out of him he looks like some weird sort of macaroni cactus. My wife and I fought badly and my daughter cut a big gash in her arm with tweezers and a pair of scissors. I re-read Dune and consoled myself in achieving being and nothingness.
There are arguments over corporal punishment and capital punishment and politics and religion and I'm scared because they all feel equally nonimportant, and I know that's not true. I know there is still a reason to fight for your beliefs and your causes and not get dragged back into the surf while you submit to weariness. There is beauty both when you are young and old, but beauty viewed through old eyes is grainy and lined. I've noticed that only one of my eyes still sees the world in rose hues, and the other in mostly blues. It's all still there, and real, but now it takes reminders.
A two year old drowned at the lake where used to live. My stepdad's mother gave me a bunch of silver dollars. We picked out new curtains for window overlooking the stairs.
I love the way you write. It makes me nostalgic for someone else's memories.
thank you, sarah
THE SPICE MUST FLOW!
Stop giving Tristan that HGH! He'll never be allowed to compete in the Tour de France!
dave, and when leto dies, THE TEARS MUST FLOW
shari, i can't stop him. i try, but he's too big to fail.
For some reason after reading, I thought, yes, shrugging your shoulders is more painful than we give it credit for. Oui ow.
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